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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26687965">Defeat, my Defeat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/howsharry/pseuds/howsharry'>howsharry</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case Fic Of Sorts, Ettersberg (Rivers of London), Genius Loci, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightingale's trauma, Pining, adventures abroad, epic ettersberg revival, eventual Peter/Thomas, locus amoneus, no but we're going back back back, tags will be added as story develops</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:02:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26687965</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/howsharry/pseuds/howsharry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>With Abigail graduating from school and joining the Folly, new questions are asked about the future of the last english practicioners. Change<br/>is coming, and blurring established boundaries by which Peter handles his relationships in the Folly. When a hooded stranger visits Nightingale in London and tells them "they are not finished", Peter has to decide whether he will respect Nightingale's demand for privacy or take a (selfish?) risk and go investigate by himself. Consequentially, Peter takes a holiday. The clues lead him back to where the fate of the magical world was once at stake and the ground is drenched in the blood of the innocent: the Ettersberg.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Grant/Thomas Nightingale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Defeat, my Defeat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yo people of this lovely fandom<br/>Cut to the chase: two years ago I move to go to uni and realized I was now living a mere 25km from the actual ettersberg and the historic town of weimar. I thought it would be cool to contribute to this fandom with the close-up view, trying to stay in character as a twenty-something nerdy english guy and not the twenty something nerdy and socialized german person I am. </p>
<p>I have not read valse falue as of now (and tbh I do not plan on doing so) but I realize there is a bunch of information on the ettersberg events in there, I gather as much from follypedia. consider what I am writing fanon, especially divergence after hanging tree  (what's a faceless man, anyways) </p>
<p>so this is neither brit-picked nor is it finished, but the plot is fully sketched out and you can prepare yourself for some s u f f e r i n g and b a d   g r a m m a r. i will add tags as I go. the story is told in a "real time" timeline, mixed with flashbacks that tell of the events leading up to Peter's vacation</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The train came to a gentle stop and spit the passengers out onto the platform of Weimar main station. It was the noon of September 24th, and surprisingly, one of the travelers happened to be myself. See, I am not a big traveler, more of fan of what the internet calls staycation – spending your holidays at home that is, preferably in front of the TV with a beer and a match on, or a Discworld Novel and the heater turned up – but obviously not this time around. This year, I had taken myself to Germany of all places – for reasons that were neither completely personal nor just work-related.</p>
<p>The platform was neat, clean, and lead underground into a tunnel that connected it with the main station building, which was just as tidy and bright as you’d expect from a central german tourist town, population 65.000, ‘heart of german Geisteskultur’. On the way here from Berlin Tegel Airport I’d consumed its Wikipedia article and decided that, under different circumstances, I’d never have set foot in the city. Although some part of me was looking forward to seeing some pieces of medieval and pre-war-Bauhaus architecture, every other part of me was biting my nails and screaming: what are you doing, Peter???</p>
<p>Outside the train station was a small park with an array of parallel benches, where I dropped the duffel bag and backpack I’d brought with me and pulled out my phone. There’s little to nothing to orientate yourself by in a place you’ve never been to, but my curiosity demanded to be fed this one piece information before I’d go and look for a hotel. I waited for google maps to finally rearrange itself and turned around to face what I’d marked on the map before and which now lay behind the station and above the city to the north: </p>
<p>the Ettersberg. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> - 1 year before -</p>
<p>Abigail’s graduation party had ended with her disappearing in a red Volvo V70 stocked with girlfriends, beer and party food, undoubtedly headed out to have more fun than her family could provide. I decided the same was true for me. I had done more than enough talking about my job for one night and I lacked Nightingale’s small talk skills to make it seem like I wasn’t hiding half the truth, that I couldn’t do magic and had not seen unicorns prancing about but was working regular, boring cases. Or perhaps, since almost everyone here knew me since I was little in the first place, I had had no chance to get by with white lies convincingly.</p>
<p>I kissed my mum goodbye and told her to say hi to my dad and then headed back to the Folly by subway, since Nightingale had dropped me off at the estates earlier. He knew he had a standing invitation to my parent’s flat and by extension to Abigail’s family’s, too, but he sensed when he was welcomed as a friend or, as today, as their child’s boss. He predicted, rightly, that him coming there would make everyone slightly uncomfortable.</p>
<p>I’d expected him to still be up when I got back, it was merely 10 p.m., and he was: the lights were on and he’d left the door to the small reading room open. I knocked when I entered the study and he looked up from some dusty, thin thing, likely a book of poetry in some language that caused me headaches.<br/>
“Peter”, he greeted me. He pointed at the decanter to his right and the half empty glass of bourbon sitting next to it, his eyes posing the question. I declined and sat down on the couch next to his chair, rubbing my hands and stretching them towards the hearth.</p>
<p>Nightingale did not return to his book but watched me. I looked him once over: he’d changed out of his Sunday best, the dove-grey suit he’d worn to the graduation ceremony in Abigail’s school, and into his pajamas, his dark red robe tied around his middle. I wondered if he’d been trying to sleep but had not succeeded.</p>
<p>“Got something for you”, I said and pulled my wallet out, from where I produced a fresh polaroid, taken just this evening and snatched from the hands of Abigail’s uncle. I handed it over.</p>
<p>Nightingale looked at it for a moment and I watched him closely. Abigail’s uncle had taken two photographs of us: one with Abigail wedged between Nightingale and myself, all us smiling and looking dapper and professional, and the second one after we’d broken apart, looking about the room and standing slightly different. The one he was holding was the latter. In it, Nightingale had taken each of us by his side, guiding us towards the party in the absentminded manner that some would call good manners, whereas Abigail called it a “residual patriarchal habit”. That was perhaps why she wasn’t looking too happy in the picture, but on the other hand my governor and me were grinning at each other. I couldn’t remember if one of us had made a joke or not.</p>
<p>Nightingale sighed and from the way he held the photograph like he was worried his fingers would smudge the ink if he handled it less carefully, I could tell he liked it.</p>
<p>“I do have the patriarchal habitus, don’t I?”, he pondered.</p>
<p>“I don’t mind”, I said truthfully, which earned me fond look. “But I imagine Abby will continue lecturing us about modern feminist stands.”<br/>
Nightingale nodded. “And we will listen. If she is to have a home here, I want her to be comfortable.” </p>
<p>“She is comfortable, with you. But thing is she’s seventeen and raging against the machine. She’ll have to adjust to a different work life and professional life, too.”</p>
<p>“Change is a-coming”, Nightingale said with less mirth than I liked. He waved the photograph at me. “Thank you, I’d like to keep this if you don’t mind.”</p>
<p>“It’s for you”, I reassured him and leaned back, watching the flames in the hearth. I don’t ask Nightingale personal questions very much, largely because my focus of curiosity tends to be his elongated personal history and I seldom get the answers I’m hoping for. But also, because I can read him quite well by now, eight years of cohabiting do quite a nice job in learning these skills and I usually have a pretty good idea what he’s thinking when we face a situation. But tonight marked the start of change, indeed: with taking on Abigail as an apprentice came responsibility and the prospect of actually planning a future for the falcon division of the MET/the last traditionally educated practitioners of Great Britain. And, of course, I would share these tasks, and I felt both dread and excitement about them. But never had me and Nightingale had a heart to heart about it.</p>
<p>So I asked him, clumsily. “How do you feel about everything?”</p>
<p>He turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. “About her graduating?”</p>
<p>I shook my head and gestured vaguely. “The future.”</p>
<p>Nightingale pursed his lips and instinctively reached out for his glass. His face had turned into a frown, hardening his relaxed poise. </p>
<p>“It will be exciting”, he said, not quite convincing. “And difficult, but we will manage.”</p>
<p>“I’m not asking as your colleague.”</p>
<p>Nightingale nipped at his glass and put it back, leaving a long-stretched silence in which I watched him with my whole attention. I believe it made him uncomfortable, at least he was smoothing out his night gown more than he needed.</p>
<p>“I do not wish to give you the wrong impression”, he said, finally, and with a low voice. His eyes met mine, piercing me without provoking me to look away. “But I’m rather unsure about…almost everything.”</p>
<p>I shrugged. “So am I.”</p>
<p>He nodded and turned silent but did not look away. </p>
<p>“Is it about the age thing?”, I asked. My heart stopped a beat when the thought occurred, and I had to speak it instantly: “Or because of me?”<br/>
I, to my knowledge, did not sound self-conscious and wouldn’t have liked to sound like that when inquiring about my friend’s thoughts. But I had an inkling that things would change on a more global level when Abigail joined us at the Folly. We both would be supervising her, we both would be teaching her stuff and protecting her – there was little difference between mine and Nightingale’s positions besides the matter of seniority and rank. Things, that Abigail did not give a flying shit about, anyways. </p>
<p>“It is worrying me, sometimes”, Nightingale said, and it sounded very much like he was admitting. “My exterior age projects a certain timeline onto our endeavors.” He stopped and frowned. “But why on earth should I worry about you?”</p>
<p>“Maybe I’m not up to the task”, I slipped.</p>
<p>Nightingale eyed me. “I’m very glad to have you by my side. In fact, I could not wish for someone more fit to adept what we do to the modern world, Peter.”</p>
<p>My ears were hot, never skipping a chance to act up when my boss fed me validation. Trying to hide my embarrassment, I missed the chance to tell him that I felt the same.</p>
<p>Nightingale coughed and looked away. “But I don’t want you to worry about me”, he resumed, “your task is to become able enough to lead the Folly when…”</p>
<p>You’re gone? A teenager? When you don’t want to do it anymore? </p>
<p>“When the time comes.” </p>
<p>With that he got up and stepped closer, our knees almost brushing. He looked down at me with an unsettling mix of composed horror and uncontrolled tenderness, a very special flavour to be served up before going to bed. In my humble opinion it was the perfect mixture for a variety of anxiety-riddled nightmares.</p>
<p>“My worries are not your concern”, he said gently, eyes twinkling. “So, I will not thank you for asking, although it is very kind of you. Good night, Peter.” </p>
<p>He took the picture with him and left me sitting there, thinking that one way or another these concerns were always shared ones, and that I, were I able to ignore whatever kept him up at night, would rather not do so. Sadness tugged at my heart, despite the praise I’d gotten. Not because of the day’s events and the consequences we’d suffer and enjoy from taking on Abigail. But some twisted, father-less part of me wanted to be a good subordinate and care for my governor (so maybe in turn he’d be able to do his best for the Folly?) and another part wished to just be close to him when it came to these matters. And other things. A lot of things, really.</p>
<p>Before I went to bed, I picked up the book Nightingale had been reading. It was an anthology of poems by german romanticist and literature titan Goethe. It was, of course, in german, and hence completely useless to me. I put it back on the table and headed off to my room.</p>
<p>- Today -</p>
<p>Walking through the small classicist town felt much forbidden and surreptitious. And in some way, it was a massive breach of trust and encroachment on parts of Nightingale’s past that he decidedly never shared much about. In another way, I was investigating, and my moral self much preferred to wear that hat. </p>
<p>Almost everyone here seemed to have dogs, which made me more nervous than I liked. I was gazing at passerby’s on my way to the hotel, scanning for shepherd dogs and seeing none. The walk was brief and almost refreshing, the nauseous feeling that had build up in my body all the way from London slowly diminished. </p>
<p>The hotel I’d chosen was a bed and breakfast, really, with a dreadlock wearing receptionist dressed like she attended the notorious Bauhaus university and went to raves in Berlin on the weekends. Her name was Amelie and she showed me to a small room, furnished with the necessities: a bed, a desk, a closet, a bathroom and a flatscreen TV mounted on the wall. I set up my workstation and threw my duffel into the closet before I lay down and tried to rest. </p>
<p>I felt uneasy, even though I was alone and not really doing anything questionable, yet. Nightingale’s face, hurt and disappointed eyes piercing right through me, appeared and waned before my inner eye. Alternating with that I imagined the face of the hooded figure that had been haunting me for weeks now – ever since we’d encountered her on the crossing. The crossing incident happened after Nightingale and I had been called in for a car crash on a Tuesday morning in early September, which was odd enough. What struck the officers as weird and had them contact us were the differing witness statements, the lack of traffic and the sudden and quite extraordinary amount of fog collecting in that particular street. </p>
<p>Considering the hooded figure, my imagination may be fertile, but it is not spared from the influences of pop culture. Feminine villains tend to be made a certain way - often very beautiful, which makes their moral impurity all the more tragic. I’d also never seen Nightingale knocked over by a person so slight and seemingly weak, which made the mystery all the more horrifying and enticing. 

Nightingale didn’t care about all this very much, he was not stunned by someone besting him, apparently, and it spoke to his character, I thought. But on the other hand, he was willfully ignoring all the clues coming with this fateful encounter: her sudden appearance on the crash site, the german shepherd accompanying her, the reeking vestigia, the slight figure, and her words: “we are not finished”. </p>
<p>While Nightingale had been recovering, there had been a lot of discussion about this, mostly on my side. After he’d been cleared a couple of days later he’d offered to take it to the boxing ring to “get it out of my system”. He was clearly annoyed by me, which isn’t a novum, but mostly he still listens to what I say. This time, he ignored it, and he did little to explain why.<br/>

You will be glad to know that I did not physically fight him for the sake of the argument. I did what every good friend would do (would they?): I took my remaining vacation days, booked a flight to Germany to poke around in a couple of old wounds and possibly a trap set up by a non-human antagonist and went without telling anyone where I was going. Very mature, yes. Very me, indeed.<br/>
Does it have anything to do with my frustrations regarding mine and Nightingale’s relationship? I hope not. To say the truth, I also hope I find out nothing new. Let my damned curiosity be satisfied with the boring remnants of this towns long forgotten history, lest I get back to London in time and tell a convincing story about holing myself up in a cabin in Herefordshire for a week to reread my Gaiman novels. Let me blow off some steam in a foreign country, so I can keep repressing my ass and hold up my job without stepping on anyone’s toes again.</p>
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